


Many Faces

by ToHeck (Issandri)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Marriage, Shapeshifting, tag team fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6796999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issandri/pseuds/ToHeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya Stark and Daenerys Targaryen live many lives by many names. In some of them, they meet. [Drabble Collection]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Queen of the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys has a bad time hiding whilst Arya Stark does her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've taken so many liberties that we can't even apologize for all of them, we haven't the time. We took artistic license with Arya's abilities and Dany's patience. This is... pure crack. We work on little sleep and even less regard for seriousness.

It was not enough that Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, called Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, had to suffer the indignity of residing in an inn infested with all manner of scummy vermin and scuttling insects that ever lived this side of the Narrow Sea. Not enough that the men who invaded the common rooms of that inn specialized in sleight of hand tricks under the table and under women’s skirts. That her traveling companion, not much better than such men despite her noble birth, had deigned to forgo her titles and merely refer to her as ‘Dany’. No, Daenerys Targaryen also had to clamber gracelessly into a wardrobe full of musty, peasant-grade rags, on order of Arya Stark, so that they might ‘gather important information’ from a buxom tavern wench who had eyes for the man Arya had disguised herself as. 

“Wait in here,” Arya had commanded, her voice as low and raspy as it was fake. It had been interesting, seeing Arya transform into this one called ‘Jerrod’, with a thick beard and even thicker accent. Daenerys could see, vaguely, what might be attractive about the visage Arya had donned for this work, but found she much preferred Arya’s real face. Especially when traveling with the _real_ Ayra didn’t involve hiding in dirty closets. “I’ll get what we need. All I need from you is to stay quiet, and to stay hidden.” Obviously her disguise gave her the confidence to order around a queen with no regards to propriety. 

Still, Daenerys knew how important their mission was, and Arya had given Dany little reason _not_ to trust her, despite being an assassin and, frankly, a right cunt. So the queen and mother made herself a nest of fabric and stale air, and waited. She didn’t dare move when muffled voices began to sound from the other side, except swipe away a heavy sheaf of cloth that fell upon her head. The thick wood and garments kept her from piecing together whatever words she could catch from the wench and the Queen’s disguised ward, at least until they came further into the room. 

It didn’t take long for her mind to stray from the present, allowing herself to hunch further into the wardrobe, and feel the cold surface of worm-eaten wood against her back. Her stuffy confines made her skin itch and her brow sweat, but Dany reminded herself the necessity of their actions. Yet unlike all those other times before, when her mind stayed true to its course, mapping out what was left of their plan and whatever contingencies therein, Dany found herself wondering about her newfound friend. The _mysterious_ Arya Stark. She almost allowed herself an amused, internal chuckle from the description, but felt herself in too sour a mood to do so, and continued to sulk in the corner of the wardrobe with her arms around her knees. For one whom she thought was churlish and stubborn as a dunderheaded mule, Dany was pleasantly surprised to find this face of Arya Stark withheld a certain wit and mischief, which threatened to pull this Queen and Mother of Dragons etc. back to adolescence; during a time when Dany allowed herself to be free as a child could, with her blood boiling in her veins.

Daenerys jumped when she heard something heavy thump against a hollow wood, the sound loud enough to make her worry for her friend that she briefly considered jumping out of the closet like some godless troll and frightening off any attackers with a flail of her pale, gangly limbs. A vapid giggle kept her from doing anything rash, and Dany had to press her hand over her gaping mouth when she heard a familiar voice command the wench to ‘take it in your mouth’.

Forget Arya Stark’s charm and wit; forget her guile and clever fingers -- Arya Stark, Daenerys concluded, was a slobbering dog. She seethed from her seat in the wardrobe, sure that the assassin wasn’t going to get any information from the woman when she had her mouth full of… full of… 

“Good girl,” Arya rumbled, and Dany fought not to groan out loud herself in annoyance, seeing clearly in her mind’s eye some dark and brooding man towering over a woman who knelt before him, encouraging her to perform disgusting… lewd… filthy… 

A lusty moan erupted from Arya’s throat, deep and emphatic, and seemingly very _real_. Dany swallowed, her tongue heavy in her mouth. It had been a long time since Daenerys had heard such sounds, even muffled as they were from her perch. Her mouth was alternatingly dry and drenched with saliva, and she tried to tune out what was happening outside her hideaway.

It was very difficult, especially once Arya’s companion no longer had her mouth occupied. She was enthusiastically _vocal_ , and another thump and giggle rang in Dany’s ears. She could only imagine what Arya was doing-- not that she _wanted_ to. She would much rather concern herself with the forces loyal to the lions marching from the west than remember the gentle touch of a heavy hand. Dany bit the insides of her cheek, angry at herself for remembering those starlit nights when she was bare to the wind and before the eyes of her khalasar. And when the bed started creaking in rhythm under its occupants’ bodies, Dany didn’t allow herself to think of Daario Naharis and the opulent bed with silken sheets that made their flesh sing during passionate nights. Most of all -- Dany thought, growling to herself before folding the lump of cloth over her face -- she never allowed herself to think of silver eyes darkening and mussed hair; nor the sharp tongue which made her sting in places, nor how she invited and welcomed it nonetheless. Dany would never allow to tease herself with the true face of her assassin.

Dany could hear Arya and her woman now, uttering words and heated breath between them as if they had something there, and she had to stifle something heavy and disconcerting which nestled itself in her breast like a roiling dragon eating its own tail. As if possessed by a thoughtless version of herself, Dany opened her eyes and sought out the door of the wardrobe. Before she could stop herself, or scold herself for even thinking it, Daenerys angled her head until she could see the sweat on Arya’s back mingling with blood under the wench’s fingernails as the assassin drove the woman half mad with every snap of her -- _his_ hips.

‘Jerrod’ hadn’t bothered to remove his trousers, but it was obvious that didn’t stop him from thrusting roughly in and out of his squealing lover. Dany was of half a mind to bury her face in the clothes surrounding her and suffocating herself with them. She couldn’t bring herself to look away from the rippling muscles in Arya’s -- _Jerrod’s_ \-- back as he moved, or to close her ears to his animalistic snarling as he drew moans from the woman underneath him. 

It felt like forever until the two bodies shuddered, thankfully marking the end of the dirty display. Dany felt herself inhale as if she hadn’t breathed in forever ago, wiping her cheek of its sweat, and feeling her face burn under her cold palm. She forced her eyes away from the small view outside the wardrobe, as if she hadn’t intended to look through it in the first place, and felt her body -- light as a feather -- sink into the smelly clothes inside. She kept still, pressing a hand on her beating heart in an effort to calm it, until the voices from outside dwindled into small talk, and finished with the door of the room closing shut. 

Daenerys jumped when the wardrobe doors opened, and she wished she could have hidden herself behind the contents of the closet altogether, not wishing to face the other half of the show she had to witness today. To her surprise, Arya had already removed the face she had worn for her tryst, and now looked down at Dany with her own, although the smug smirk hadn’t left it, nor had the hooded glaze of her eyes. She looked very thoroughly satisfied, and that sent a hot white bolt of anger through Daenerys’ body, making her leap from her makeshift hiding place and grab hold of Arya’s collar.

“How exactly did you get anything but sex from that woman?” she hissed, growing all the more furious when Arya’s surprise melted into a smile. “What pertinent information did you garner while drilling into her with your…” She motioned angrily at the spot between Arya’s legs, unable to say anything more, wanting to strangle Arya and be done with it.

“No need to worry yourself, your Grace,” Arya said calmly, plucking Dany’s hold from her shirt. “I got the information we needed before sweet Linsa accompanied me back to our room.” Dany coloured deeply, her cheeks burning.

“You mean to say I sat through-- you copulated with-- all of _that_ was for nothing?” 

Arya frowned, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “You would have me send our informant off without a due reward, my Queen? I thought you were one to reward loyalty.” 


	2. Queen of Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany learns what it means to be part of the family. Arya learns she really needs to know when to shut up.

Cups were raised in remembrance as the last of the Starks - and coincidentally, the last of the Targaryens - took their meal together, sitting at the family table in Winterfell. Naturally, the setting found Arya and Daenerys together, their knees touching under the table as if a constant reminder of each other’s presence. Across from them sat Bran the wise, Lady Sansa the most beautiful in all of the North, Rickon the strong, and Jon Snow. Where outside the world was unforgiving, and the skies covered Winterfell in its eternal blanket of frost, inside the Stark halls found many hearty souls sharing their feast uninterrupted.

Bran was the first to lower his goblet and take a hearty drink before stuffing his face with a roll, and the others followed his lead by grabbing handfuls of meats from a roasted venison, and pouring bowls of hot stew in their waiting mouths. The only ones who didn’t fall upon their meal with such fervor were Daenerys and Sansa, who shared amused looks over Arya’s head, whose face was -- once Dany studied her dearest other closely -- fairly inches above the fat and potatoes on her plate.

“I can feel your eyes burning into my skull,” Arya joked, barely bothering to swallow before speaking. 

“I was just thinking you take your role as wolves rather seriously, in all manner of action,” Dany replied smoothly, smiling when Arya rolled her eyes and turned towards her.

“Only as seriously as you take being a dragon.” she countered, and Daenerys tilted her chin up in defiance of Arya’s narrowed glare. 

Bran worked a lump of food down his throat and croaked, clicking his tongue in Dany’s direction. “You best get used to it, your Grace,” he said, grabbing his goblet with greasy fingers before taking a gulp of his wine, “Seeing as you have accepted the hand of our dear sister--”

‘Dear sister’ promptly loosed a low belch in Sansa’s direction, causing the latter to smack the shorter Stark’s forearm, while begging Arya to please ‘grow up’.

“And seeing as you are here now with us, joining our little ‘pack’ in communion this merry night --” Bran waved a half-eaten roll towards her direction, looking quite smug in light of Dany’s own amused guise, “Your face says it all, so feel free to add ‘Wolf’ into your already impressive repertoire of titles, your Grace.”

Dany chuckled in earnest, feeling her shoulders shake after realizing, yes, as much as she wanted to doubt her place amongst the Starks, the North did feel like home. There was something intimate about sharing a table with the others, despite having taken the head table in a feast full of people wilder than the Northern men. Daenerys felt their accommodating eyes, their genuine smiles, and their raucous laughter peel back each layer of her impressive ‘repertoire’ of titles until she was simply-- Dany. She hid a warm smile behind a cut piece of smoked pork. So be it.

Arya, however, groaned and leaned against her wife, pouting playfully. “Another title?” she complained, closing her eyes when she felt Dany’s hand brush briefly across her back. “Do you know how long it already takes for me to call her name out properly in bed?” 

“Arya!” Sansa screeched, sending her a look that eerily resembled the face of their late mother, but Arya merely cackled and sent a smug glance at her wife, who shook her head. There was no use in trying to get Arya Stark to act properly at all, especially not when Sansa was present to shriek and scold. At most the younger woman might be asked to stand silently in a show of strength and support to her Queen and Consort, whilst probably preoccupied with the litany of ways she could kill Dany’s advisors or bend her over the Iron Throne without too many wounds on either of their bodies. 

Rickon spoke up for Dany, thumping his chest in deference, saying, “I for one would be proud to call the Mother of Dragons a Wolf.” Daenerys smiled at him and his ears went red. He ducked his head and preoccupied himself with his meal, picking at the strips of his share of venison meat and tearing them apart in the gravy.

“Hm.” Dany met Arya’s gaze as the Stark chewed thoughtfully, rubbing her chin with her free hand and smearing grease across her face. It was a struggle for Dany to refrain from tucking Arya’s wild hair behind her ear or cleaning the spots of food from her cheek. “A Wolf? I don’t know…” Arya's wry chuckle as she glanced over the hall set Dany on edge immediately, bristling and wary, sensing her wolf’s mischief as soon as Dany spied the wide and toothy grin Arya shared with the youngest Stark. "Mayhap more of a Lady's furry lapdog,” she said, ticking her fingers as she continued, “Fine... well-groomed... prone to yapping."

A sudden chill down her back made Arya shiver and turn to back her wife, whose purple eyes were cool and discerning as their gaze bored into her. The look reminded Arya of a time a nobleman once tried to foolishly ask the Queen’s hand in marriage before they had been wed, practically demanding Daenerys’ time like an overstuffed cockerel in the court. Dany’s hand slid over Arya’s thigh, but the movement - which would normally stoke a fire in Arya’s belly - made her freeze. There was an immediate silence around the table, sensing the Queen’s glare, which seemed to stoke the warm fires lining the cozy hall into a burning frenzy. Arya’s muscles tensed as Dany’s claws dug into her skin, and the polite smile on Dany’s face had an apology on Arya’s lips before Daenerys could utter a word. But it was too late for poor Arya. "And what kind of Wolf shall you be once neutered, Lady Stark?"

Dany found, with vengeful satisfaction, that her bed in the North was just as warm as the one that resided in Kings Landing, even without Arya Stark sleeping in it. It was far more comfortable than leaning against the door outside her bedroom, whining to be let in, she was sure. 


	3. Wild Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany finds who she was looking for and Arya gets a little wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is far longer than the others, and much further from both the stories told in the books and the HBO series. Viserys found his army and kept his sister for himself, hiding her away until such time that he could find use for her - either as a bartering chip or a wife. Arya failed to join the faceless men, and found power elsewhere, her longing for vengeance snatched from her as her list was crossed off, one by one, by hands other than her own, and her family struggled and survived (or died) without her. Daenerys and Arya met the first time by chance, when Arya took a job that ended up in fat pockets, and coincidentally, Dany's rescue. This is the result.

The sun beat down on sandstone towers and dusty roads. A horde of bodies and beasts of burden shifted past one another, only adding to the heat, as if the energy and spirit of the crowd attracted the eye of the sun. Having spent much of her life hidden away by her brother in the grounds of an isolated compound, Daenerys had rarely dealt with such heat or so many people. The press of the crowd was almost overwhelming, and she found herself thinking back to her blue room. To the one window near her bed; to the heavy, silver-gilded doors.

Still, discomfort was no stranger to the exiled princess, and, to her companion’s chagrin, neither was sneaking into places she didn’t necessarily belong.

With a sun-bleached hood drawn far over her head, Dany worked her way through carousers who sought to enter the arena in a more sanctioned manner, off to place bets, or drink themselves into a stupor. Daario was close behind, keeping his hand on the hilt of his arakh, scowling at every red-faced scoundrel who dared brush shoulders with the future Queen.

“Please relax, Daario,” she told him, pressing close under his chin as if to keep their conversation to themselves, “I promise we won’t be in here long.”

“I hope so, princess.” He didn’t want her here, that much she knew, but there was a very important reason she needed to be. It was the same reason Daenerys was standing on the pale sands and soil of this foreign city, rather than imprisoned by those who served her brother’s whims.

Dany smiled when she spotted a black, tattered cloth hanging above an open entryway, the dark shade over her eyes making her look grim in spite of her expression. “Here,” she told Daario.

He held a hand against her shoulder, pushing ahead of her and looking around before letting her through, presumably wary of men hiding in the shadows. There were hardly any dark corners to be found in the middle of the afternoon, however. Not even in the back rooms of the fighting pits where the smell of sweat and blood wafted in the slightest breeze, trapped by the arid heat. It was cooler inside without the sun beating down so directly on them, and Dany sighed in relief when they entered through the misshapen stone entryway. Here there were places for combatants to spar, to rest, or bathe. Dany supposed there might be rooms for shadow men to brood and pray to their gods as well, but she saw none as she strode purposefully forward.

A guard told her exactly where to look for what she sought. He had been especially helpful, even with the coin that had greased his palm for the information, but Dany could hardly question people’s kindness as unusual after experiencing almost none from her only family.

Dany bit her lip and held her breath, unwilling to think about such things now she was free. They entered through a large open area where there was yet another crowd, albeit much smaller than the bustling commotion outside. True to the guard’s instruction, she and Daario made their way over to a lowered, dirt-floored pit -- the fourth one on the right -- where only a few fighters lingered, including the one Daenerys came here to find.

This one was leaning against the sandstone walls of the pit, leisurely wrapping a dirty-white thick cloth around their bloodied hands. No one seemed to want to go near them, and given the stony, unwelcoming scowl on their angular face, Daenerys hardly blamed them. The fighter was dressed simply: a light, sand-colored shirt half tucked into tight breeches, with flat leather shoes on their feet. The familiar dark hair was shorn far shorter than the last time they had met, cut almost completely on the sides. The front tuft was so slick with sweat that it stuck to her forehead in a messy rat’s nest. From where Daenerys stood, she could see the numerous scars lining the fighter’s face; traces of old wounds criss-crossing down her face to her clavicle, mapping out a history that reminded Dany of the old cartography books she used to read.

Danaerys jumped when she felt Daario grab the outside of her elbow, his hot breath in her hair, “Are you sure about meeting this fool, my Lady?” he said, hand softly tugging her arm as if he was in a hurry, “This place is not fit for a creature like yourself.” Dany could hear the implications of what he meant. Daario knew this young woman was sheltered from the world’s ugly corners all her life until a few months ago, but she didn’t escape one madman’s cage just to enter another.

“And what kind of creature am I, Daario?” she asked, turning to look at his bleak expression, amusement dancing over her fair features. Gently, she shrugged his hold from her arm and turned back towards the pit, seeking a safe path to the person she wished to speak with. Her searching eyes lingered over the two men who were caught in a fist fight against each other, their rotund bodies indistinguishable as they fought to overpower one another and dig their fists in each other’s flesh. She could see sweat fly from where she walked around the edge of the pit, and could smell the salt of it. The sour stench of brawling bodies almost made her gag, until she reminded herself to keep strong. She managed to catch the eye of one of the guards, who nodded at her in silent understanding, and began to climb up the stone steps to lead the young woman down the pit.

Dany sensed Daario tense beside her, and as if beckoned by a silent whisper, returned her gaze to the young fighter below. Silver eyes stared up at her as she descended. They lit up like two hot pyres burning, and Dany nearly stumbled when she spotted a toothy smile spreading across dry lips. As she and Daario approached, the fighter strode up to meet them, head narrowly ducking a flying spear, her arms wide in greeting.

“Welcome, Lady, to the dirty crack of Master Cevio’s arse. Could’ve asked them to tidy up a bit if I knew we’d been expecting company.”

Daario balked at the fighter’s introduction, clutching the hilt of his arakh and making a face as if he had just suckled on a lemon. Daenerys didn’t let her polite expression fall, although that had hardly been how she expected to be addressed. “Arya Stark?” She hadn’t meant to sound so hesitant, but Arya only smiled wider.

“In the flesh, though battered and bruised, as you can see,” the so-named Arya Stark confirmed, thoughtlessly picking at the crimson scab healing on her tanned forearm, "I must have the favor of the gods to meet a Targaryen twice in one lifetime. And after spitting death in the face the first time, to get you out?” She lowered her head and smirked, pensively tightening the cloth around her hands, “They must really like me." There was a strange pause that would have a lesser woman fidgeting, but when Arya made no move to speak further, Daenerys took a step forward and raised her chin imperiously.

“I wanted to thank you again. For freeing me from my prison, Lady Stark.” She ignored Daario’s derisive snort. “And after watching your blades dance,” Dany allowed her eyes to stray from Arya’s face, watching the two large men grapple in the middle of the pit, “I must say, you have done more than impress me.”

There was yet another moment of silence, in which Arya took time to consider what Daenerys said. Arya threw a messy strand of hair from her bloodied forehead, and grinned, teeth as sharp as the words she uttered. “Between us, Daenerys -- ” She cast an unimpressed eye on Daario, who, from the clenching of his fists, seemed to be ruminating over throwing away his princely decorum and swing a fast one on her. Musing at the man’s rousing temper, Arya tilted her head. She leaned forward until there were mere inches between her and Daenerys, then spoke, lowering her voice until it seemed to rumble in her throat: “I am no lady.”

“I could have said as much,” Daario snarled, jabbing his fingers into Arya’s shoulder. She made no move to dodge or counter his push, leaning back from Dany and letting her arms fall to her sides, her smile falling into a comical pout. “A lady would address her Highness with respect.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Arya’s amusement never seemed to waver, and Daenerys watched her closely. “It does my heart good to hear my blade meets your approval, _your Highness_.” The blatant innuendo in Arya’s lilting tone made Daario growl. “People rarely travel so far as to merely pay me a compliment. I thank you for your generosity.” She gave a low bow - Dany couldn’t tell if it were mocking or for true - and turned to go.

“Wait.” Daenerys was pleased when Arya faced her again, dark brows raising in curiosity. Realizing she had been treading too lightly, Dany stood tall and swept her gaze over Arya’s body, assessing the fighter. “You don’t warrant such travel for a mere few moments of pleasantry, good as you are, Stark.”

Arya barked out a laugh. “So you _do_ want something from me?”

“I want your sword,” Daenerys purred, the words low and lulling in her chest. Arya blinked, her smug smile faltering into surprise, although for just a moment. Still, Dany caught it and pushed forward. “You proved your worth to me many times over the day you fought for me, and I want you to kneel and pledge your sword to me yet again, this time for a far greater purpose.” Dany could feel Daario bristling beside her, but she would do what she must to get Arya on their side. He could pout about Dany’s flirtations another time.

Arya rubbed her chin, eyes looking up at the ceiling in deep thought for a moment, a drawn out hum thrumming from her lips, before finally replying: “No.”

This time it was Daenerys’ turn to be taken aback. “No?”

Arya nodded her head with a polite smile. “My apologies. I meant, ‘no, your Highness.’”

“Incredible.” Daario shook his head like an angry bull, stepping between them again and shouldering Arya aside. “You don’t need this bitch, my Queen. Her strength means nothing if she will not bend to your will.” Frowning at him, Daenerys pursed her lips. He was acting uncharacteristically aggressive, even in the face of Arya’s dismissal. It was rather unlike him to posture so furiously.

Arya took a peek above Daario’s shoulder, her rat’s nest bobbing up over an amused pair of gray eyes, saying, “He’s right you know.” Arya walked back a few steps, putting her hands on her hips. “You probably don’t need me. You’ve plenty of dogs. There’s not enough room on your lap as it is, and believe me when I say your friend here doesn’t want to share his position upon it -- or between your legs. Besides,” she said with a sweep of her hand across her belt, cupping her coin purse, “I don’t fight for loyalty, or ‘honorable’ causes. I fight for money.”

“I decide for myself what, and whom, I need to win my battles,” Dany said, stepping around Daario and following Arya to where she began stretching. Daenerys watched her for a while, as Arya strained her arms and leaned into lunges. Daario wasn’t lost to how Daenerys stared at the pit fighter’s shirt clinging to her body in places. The sleeves rode up her arms to reveal lean and wiry muscles, no doubt earned from swinging a sword around as masterfully as Dany had seen Arya wield it in her defense. “And you will be rewarded for what you do in my service, Stark. Viserys may be my brother, but I am not him.”

“Usually when nobility tries to appeal to my honor, they plan on stiffing my fee,” Arya grunted, groaning when her bones popped as she slowly rose from her squat.

“Honor?” Daario scoffed and folded his arms, skulking behind Daenerys, his lip curled in a sneer. “A sellsword interested only in coin, even one with blood like yours, has no need for honor.” He ignored Arya’s exasperated ‘that’s what I always say!’ and turned to Dany. “She also lacks passion, my Queen, and the strongest of fighters are as such because of their passion.”

Arya straightened with a grumble and rolled her shoulders back, sighing. “Your man can sing what he wants about strength and passion, but if I may advise you, your Highness, methinks the only passion _he_ fights for is his passion for your hand on his cock.” She avoided Daario’s swing of his meaty fist deftly, and with a happy shout. “Oh-ho!”

Daenerys sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulsing in her temples. She held a firm hand over Daario’s shoulder, passing him a look, “Enough, Daario. We’ll go,” she said, “If Stark is not interested in my offer, so be it.”

“Well that’s not entirely correct,” Arya piped in before Daario could respond. And from the looks of his flaring nostrils, Daenerys realized Daario wasn’t going to back down from the fighter so easily, “While it’s true that I’m not interested in your _offer_ , and no amount of coin will let you drag me back to Westeros,” She glanced at the red-faced man, her lips curling up wolfishly, and with a wiggle of her thick brows, continued, “If you’ll allow me to be so bold, your Highness -- I _am_ rather interested in _you_.”

Daenerys felt a harsh scoff clamber up her throat, her feet shuffling back a step, “Me?”

“I grew up with tales of your ancestor’s heroics, as I’m sure you did, too.” Arya’s eyes blazed as they swept over Daenarys’ form, and she felt very _watched_ , as though she were prey to a hungry predator. She stiffened her spine and clenched her teeth. She didn’t expect to see those silvery eyes lose focus, and stray towards distant thoughts, soft and full of wonder. “Rhaenys and Visenya, astride dragons with their brother, sweeping the skies with broad wings and burning dragonfire. Wielding blades of Valyrian steel against the might of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Dany knew, in that moment, that Arya was imagining herself amongst the dragons, many years ago. Imagining taking flight and gliding astride the horizon, soaring over mountain tops and clouds, taking stars in hand. The fascination with flight was not lost on Daenerys, who often found herself with that same yearning. Arya’s mind returned to the room as she shifted and bowed her head in deference to Daenerys, a smile smile quirking her lips.

“And in the short time since you’ve been freed, you’ve been very busy living up to your family legacy. Your feats and your ideals have drawn the attention - and the ire - of many. You are every _inch_ a dragon, every part and parcel a Targaryen.” Dany stood her ground as Arya prowled forward. The breathless awe left Arya’s voice and she rumbled out, with humor staining her tone, “Well, so I assume; I have not seen the whole of you.”

“Stand your ground, _dog_.” Daario warned, his hackles raising when he realized neither woman was paying him any attention, eyes only for one another.

“Stand _your_ ground, Daario Naharis.” Daenerys ordered, holding out a hand, prompting Daario to keep silent and fall back behind her.

It was strange, yet Daenerys thought she felt a breeze stir up around her as Arya spoke. Cool relief played over her skin, and she felt so _settled_ , internally; as though a heavy storm had brewed in her chest for the longest time, snapping with white fire and strumming with pressure, and suddenly dispersed. There had been few times, and far between, that she had been glad to be born a Targaryen. Often she thought she’d been handed an empty role, given a life to live as a token held tightly in her brother’s hand, whose only value was in being hoarded or traded. And in her heart she knew, even if she fought that seeming-purpose, that she had a long and difficult game to play once she set her pieces ready upon the board. But it was times like these when she realized the weight of her birthright was not meant to crush, but to be worn, as one would wear a cloak, or a crown. All because she had the blood of the dragon, coursing through her veins. The eye of a dragon, to see the world. The heart of the dragon, beating strongly in her chest, and telling her to live _on fire_.

“You seem to know a lot about me,” Daenerys said finally, frustrated to hear her voice waver, “About my family, which yours betrayed an age ago.”

Arya Stark merely shrugged. As interesting as the younger woman was, Daenerys found she was not impressed by her gruff exterior. Still, she pressed on.

“If you do not wish to continue being under my service,” she said, “Why did you help me before? Why did you free me, when your family helped the traitors who exiled us in the first place?”

Arya’s amusement returned tenfold. “Did those who funded your rescue not tell you how much you were worth to them? I’m afraid my contracts are between myself and those who employ me, your Highness. I am willing to say that the excursion funded many of my vices for as long as it took me to stumble into this city and find other ways of earning coin.” Her eyes flickered to Daario. “And I believe your man was paid a similar amount.”

Daenerys stepped in front of Daario as though to shield him from Arya’s ridicule. “And here I thought all Starks lived their lives through honor.”

Her smile turned wry and sour. Arya watched the two men in the middle of the ring fight for a while, feeling a strange solace watching them tear each other to pieces. “It’s honor that kills a Stark,” she said, “My father; my mother, and brothers. And those who survive our name, other than myself, remain lost to me.”

Dany’s eyes softened, and her voice was gentle when she asked, “Is that why you’re avoiding coming back home, to Westeros?”

“There’s no home for me there-- not anymore. Nothing awaits, not family, not-- vengeance.” Her voice fell, sharp and bitter, and she turned towards the men whose battle had ended, who lay on the floor panting and grunting, tending to their hurts. Dany’s gaze followed hers, and she frowned.

“And what is for you _here_ , Stark?” Daenerys looked around, and saw for the first time the kind of place Arya Stark surrounded herself in. She glanced at the puddle and stains of blood in the middle of the pit, and wrinkled her nose. “Paltry coin, the stink of blood and sweat, and a meaningless death when another fighter skins your hide for his momentary glory? What life is this for a lone wolf to live, snapping at mutts and rats to the screams of those who would see you die for their entertainment?”

“I take it you disapprove of the fighting pits.” The curl of Arya’s lip and the sheen in her silver eyes made her look fiercer than ever. “You forgot the stink of piss and shit when fighters lose control of their bowels, and of money passed through grubby hands, your Highness. It’s a heady perfume.”

Daario finally found the gall to unsheathe his arakh, iron vibrating in his hand as he stared at the woman, livid, “Enough,” he said, speaking the word as if it was made of venom. “Enough. You’ll pay for your disrespect, bitch.”

Arya made a show of mocking incredulity, motioning the center of the pit with a wave of her hand. “You’re in a fighting pit, Daario Naharis. If you wish to show me my place, lay down your sword and take your chances against me,” she said. When he balked, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. “I won’t fight you with a blade and end up owing her Highness an unmaimed fighter. I know you used to be one. Let’s see if you still have some skill without steel to prop up your spine.” Daario sheathed his arakh with a snarl and stepped towards the center ring, but Daenerys grabbed hold of his arm.

“Wait.”

Dany watched Daario’s hardened eyes melt, “My lady?”

“You are _my_ man, are you not Daario? You follow _me_ , obey _my_ word?”

He wilted like a flower in the desert heat. “Of course your Highness.”

Daenerys pinned Arya with her violet gaze, cool and imperious. “You wish to fight my man, and yet refuse to be mine? I won’t allow it.” She felt Daario relax further under her hand, but Arya seemed to know she wasn’t finished. “Why should I expend my assets for such foolishness? The only way I shall sanction a fight between the two of you, is if there are conditions _I_ might benefit from.” He stiffened again, shifting away from her hold, but she only clutched him tighter. “If Daario bests you, you’ll come fight for me. If you triumph over him, we’ll leave you be.”

Arya Stark looked up, and found a crowd was starting to gather above them, their hands passing over coins as they began to place bets in hushed whispers. “Those terms seem hardly fair, your Highness, for they benefit me none.” Her attention fell back to Daenerys, and she smiled so widely her nose wrinkled and dimples appeared on her cheeks. Dany took a steadying breath, knowing she probably wouldn’t like Arya’s counter-offer. “How’s this then: your man bests me in the ring, I’ll fight for you. I’ll find no jobs here after such a defeat, anyway. The shame would be too great.” Arya paused, relishing Daario’s seething glare. “However. If I beat him…” She nodded towards Daenerys and reached out towards her, wrist turning so her fingertips could brush against Dany’s sparkling earrings. “If I beat him, you give me the wealth you wear.” That seemed amenable to Daenerys, whose tense shoulders relaxed. “And, a kiss,” Arya added, winking audaciously.

“What? No!”

“Be grateful I don’t demand _your_ dangling jewels, Daario.”

Daario smirked, as if Arya had flicked a switch and suddenly the man was back to being his cocky self, “As if I’d let you anywhere near my jewels, foolish wolf. In or out of the pit.”

But Arya was not listening anymore, casting a disinterested eye at the jeering people loitering above and chanting for a fight. “Is that a wager you’re willing to accept, your Highness?”

“Just don’t kill each other,” Dany said with finality, turning to ascend from the pit to take her place amongst the observers.

 

* * *

 

The crowd only raged when Arya Stark and Daario Naharis found themselves facing each other in the ring. At the front of the throng, standing at the very edge of the pit, Daenerys watched them intently, her violet eyes visible under the shade of her hood.

Daario had removed extra weight by setting aside his armor, his arakh, and knife, leaving him bare from the waist up. The man was already sweating under the heat, but from his unwavering posture and the firm cut of his jaw, it was obvious Daario had never forgotten his roots. Standing opposite from him, shorter by a head, was the good fighter. Having a woman fighting in the pits was not too strange, especially for those who had seen Arya fight before, but it was rare all the same. Slave women were not often sent to the fighting pits, but to pleasure houses or home to a single master, and free women found work elsewhere. Arya Stark was a curious creature, all on her own. Her body marked by scars - old and new - held up strong, and her stance betrayed nothing. And when Daario watched her eyes dance over his body, studying him intently, he failed to suppress a shudder he recognized the terrible coldness held there. He knew if he did not fight with his wits, she might end up sending him to the other side this day, no matter what Daenerys’ orders were.

They waited on Daenerys’ signal to begin, and the rumble and murmur of the crowd ceased, Arya sent up a salute towards the exiled princess, her gaze zeroing in on her hooded face. Then, with a casual roll of her shoulders, Arya lifted her shirt and tossed it aside, the ripple of her muscled torso revealed from the movement. Crass shouts and piercing whistles rang out from leering men behind Daenerys, when the fighter showed she was indeed a woman under her scruffy clothing, despite her lean body corded with the impressive musculature of an experienced warrior. Arya could feel Dany’s attention burn into her skin and smiled grimly, hardening her stance and lifting her arms, keeping her palms flat.

The space between Daario and Arya seemed to breathe a moment. He studied her as he paced around the pit in a half circle, feeling the hot sand under his bare feet, heart pumping fast as he relived the early seven years of his short life spent learning how to become a killer. This one seemed as hardened as he, and when she sent him a crooked smile underneath the sharp steel of her eyes, he realized perhaps her biting humor hid something darker underneath. This Arya Stark was younger than him, however, and he doubted his experience would fail him now.

Daario breathed in deep, nose flaring, then baited his breath. His bound fists creaked; Daario watched, waited.

A clap rang out, and the fight began.

Arya Stark was fast. One moment she was jeering at the crowd, spitting at the side of the pit, but the next second found Daario pivoting away from her open palm, angled toward his jaw. He could hear the wind rush next to his ear. He stole a blind jab at her side, but Arya practically danced away from the strike.

Daario decided not to think any longer. They traded sharp blows, their hits merely grazing. Dodge. Twist. Thrust. Sweep. The smell of sweat was heady, and Daario could feel the hot sand below them turn to mud. When her palm slapped him across his cheek -- _first blood?_ \-- he struck back, feeling her gut harden against his fist, yet he sensed the hit made her feel winded. Arya shook it off with a breathless laugh.

“Daario Naharis. I imagine it’s been awhile since you’ve spent more than a minute half-naked with a woman?”

He sent another jab, hoping to land a harder blow, but she slapped his arm away. Daario felt another sting on his jaw in return, and he bared his teeth at the humiliating exchange. Patience, he knew, was the key. And seeing her frolic around the pit with that smug look on her face, he knew she was going to tire herself out eventually.

“Aren’t you going to hit me with your best shot, old man?” Arya called out to him, still bouncing on her toes, “Are you sure you can keep up with her Highness after all?”

“If you were really a warrior,” Daario replied, inching ever closer towards his opponent, “You would fight, not chatter or dance about.” It made him wonder if he was fighting a woman, or a monkey.

Arya leaned her head an inch to the side, barely missing contact with Daario’s meaty fist, then smacked his arm away, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Before Daario could shift mindsets, he felt her leg weave between his, causing him to stumble forward. His back stiffened when Arya mockingly slapped his backside. The audience around them cheered, some laughing at his expense. Daario felt his cheeks flush, angered when he heard a bark of laughter come from the young fighter of old Winterfell.

“Problem, ser?”

In a blind rage, Daario reared his elbow back, snarling, “You are no wolf.” She laughed again, a dark, bitter sound. He struck.

Her head snapped to the side, greased dark hair flying like upset spiderwebs shaken off the end a broom. Blood flecked from her mouth in a sudden spray, specks of it dotting the hair on his chest. Like a marionette, Arya Stark swayed, taking a few steps back on wobbly legs. But she held firm.

In the space of a second, Daario forgot his anger. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her body become lax. Her face lifted up to a hole in the ceiling above, bathing her sharp features in light. Then the moment was gone. Daario’s teeth clenched. His fists tightened and he lifted them in front of his chest. Something was different. Something had happened.

Something was wrong.

It was like Arya suddenly slipped on a mask, her face dead with rage, tense and unmoving except for her eyes, which blazed and flitted. Her mouth was twisted into a gruesome scowl that cast away any thought of her previous lightheartedness; no smile, no laugh, could ever pass through lips like those. But Daario wasn’t going to let her intimidate him. He would overpower her and force her to surrender. For the princess, of course, but also for himself. He would bring the girl to her knees and make her pay, no matter what nasty faces she made.

Daario Naharis would conquer Arya Stark, and make her lick his boots.

 

* * *

 

Arya was killing Daario.

Daenerys held her breath as she watched Daario throw another shaky punch at Arya’s side. The younger woman folded over his fist with a grunt. But that didn’t stop her from unleashing a barrage of vicious attacks in turn. As far away as she stood, Dany could hear Daario’s cries, the thick smack of flesh against flesh. Could smell the tang of blood spilt. Even the chaos of the crowd behind her, switching coins at each turn of the fight, felt like nothing compared to what she was watching.

Daario toppled upon the dark floor, coating his sweaty skin with mud. His back made crude marks on the sand as Arya fell to her knees on top of him, wailing on him while Daario tried fruitlessly to block her blows, to escape the legs locked around his middle.

Arya looked every part a wolf. A dark ghoul with wild hair, growling as she set on Daenerys’ charge like he was a piece of raw meat. Blood stained her hands, slick and dripping, yet her assault did not slow.

At the corner of her eye, she noticed a couple of guards jump down into the pit, and watched as they dragged the wild woman away. Their faces were grim, but resigned. As if they were used to this display. The audience threw rude gestures to the guards below, heckling them for halting the carnage. Hissing in displeasure when the bloodied fight had ended, and the haze of rage had gone with it.

Daario rolled to his side, coughing, a string of blood flowing freely between his broken teeth. He curled and held his ribs, silent but for harsh, rattling breaths. Daenerys stayed where she was, her feet planted on stone until the people around her dwindled, and Arya’s howls became a distant echo.

 

* * *

 

One of the guards who hauled Arya from the pits found Daenerys once Daario had staggered to a healer. She was guided through a long hallway and near an enclosed room, its walls made of dried mud. She could see candlelight glowing from behind a dark burlap veil. With a soft murmur, Daenerys told the guard to wait a while. Ignoring his hesitance, Dany swept the veil aside and entered, spine stiff and straight.

The only signal Arya Stark gave acknowledging Daenerys had entered her space with a simple tightening of the muscles of her bare, scarred back. She sat, unmoving, in the middle of the room. The darkness melded around her body as if she was a part of it, wrapping her in murky tendrils and chasing away the light. Arya’s hands were drawn tight, ashen white where they weren’t stained red, but stayed pressed, ineffectual, against the mat on which she perched. The ground had no blood to bleed or hurt to feel, no matter how Arya pounded her fists into it.

They stayed silent for a while, Daenerys studying the young woman before her. Streaks of blood, salt, and water mixed dripped down Arya’s skin, like morbid strands of dark tree strap on the rough bark of her skin. She was younger than Daenerys by a few years... Yet the lines under Arya’s eyes, and her beaten down body, made it seem like she was ancient. The young Stark’s anger made Dany shudder as she took a few steps towards one of the better lit sides of the room. As Daenerys’ hands tugged down the cowl from her face, she felt Arya’s eyes turn to her, watching the halo of candlelight glow around her head.

“I am here,” Daenerys had to pause. Arya’s eyes on her felt like winter, a freezing sear. Fire could not burn a dragon, but ice certainly could. Still, Dany spoke on. “To give you your reward.”

“I feel it’s for the best,” Arya said, her hands shaking as she unwound the cloth wrapped around them, tearing them away with unsteady strength, “I doubt your man and I could ever work together. Not without being at each other’s throats constantly.”

“I apologize for his behavior.”

“No, no.” Arya held out a hand. And when the young fighter looked up from the bloody stains on her knuckles, Daenerys saw her face soften. “Her Highness must never apologise,” she said lightly, “Most of all to an honorless hound like me. And,” she added, her lips twitching, “I think he’s learned his lesson.”

Before Daenerys could stop herself, she stretched out her arm and reached to stroke a purple bruise near Arya’s lip. Her deft fingers soft and careful, like a healer’s hands, too used to dealing with bruises of her own. Such wounds blossomed everyday in the garden of her brother’s rage.

“You’re hurt,” Daenerys said. _Yet you laugh and dance by your enemies, foolish wolf._

“This is usually what happens, in a fight,” she joked, her eyes falling when Daenerys was unamused. “I’m used to it,” Arya said, her voice low. She looked at Daenerys’ pale fingers and spoke gruffly, trying not to betray her heart fluttering madly in her ribcage. “Send my regards to Daario Naharis, your Grace. May we never meet again.”

Arya Stark’s words faded to a whisper as Daenerys leaned closer to give her what she promised. When Arya’s eyes fell shut, Daenerys paused, only a few inches away from where she had promised it. “May we never meet again?” Their parted lips hovered under the barest candle light, with dragon’s blood boiling in Daenerys’ veins, burning as her knees dug into the straw mat, to deliver freely something Viserys stole every other night before she went to bed.

Dany’s eyes held a roiling tempest glinting inside them, like thunder over darkened ocean waters, and when she spoke her words played across Arya’s tense jaw until Dany’s trembling lips teased the shell of Arya’s ear.

“Are you sure of that, Stark?”

Daenerys Targaryen left Arya Stark with a handful of jewelry, quivering shoulders, and a bruised, speechless mouth. She left the city accompanied by Daario, her council, and a few more bodies to man her army-- but not the one she wanted. It was in the cool night, with Daario resting his battered body in their bed, that Daenerys remembered the candlelit gleam of wild eyes. The eyes of a disgraced wolf, glittering silver and wrought with some deep, unreachable exhaustion. She swore to herself that she would shatter Arya’s final words to her. The next time they met, Stark would be hers.


End file.
